Becoming by Accident
by circleofstars
Summary: In a rotting house in the middle of nowhere, circumstances force Sam to take the initiative, hunting a spirit which just doesn't fit the pattern.
1. Chapter 1

_I promised this little story to the readers of __The Devil You Know __way back in June when that story was finished. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this together. I strayed into DA for a while, but I'm back now, at least, for the time being. I hope you enjoy. _

_This is a relatively short story of around 5000 words, but I wanted to post it in three parts because I think it works best that way. So, in three short sections – enjoy. : )_

_- - - - -- -_

**Becoming by Accident**

**Chapter One**

Sam stopped abruptly when the house loomed into view. He regarded it critically: it genuinely appeared to be on the point of collapse, each wall balanced precariously against the opposing weight of perpendicular walls in order to stay up, the roof sagging wearily under the damp, chipped tiles. Sam's expression said quite clearly, I'm _not_ going in there.

Dean stopped walking just in time to avoid slamming into his brother's inert back. He followed Sam's gaze. 'Brings new meaning to the word 'tumbledown', huh, Sammy?' he commented wryly, shouldering his way past on the edge of the narrow path.

'Boys!' John's voice cut through the still cold air with startling clarity. 'Anytime today.'

Dean glanced up sharply at his father, then back at Sam before ducking warily into the house. Sam stood stubbornly frozen on the doorstep for a long moment, cursing his luck at being born into a family which spent its nights in such exploits. He could hear the low pitched growl of his father's voice, muffled by the brambles which clung to the walls. Sam sighed and wearily followed his brother into this latest haunted house.

There was mould on the walls and creeping surreptitiously across the cracked plaster of the ceiling, making the cold air heavy and stagnant with damp. What little furniture remained was splintered and dark with mildew. Ominous creaking sounds echoed off the walls, along with the quiet scratchings of rodents between the floorboards. Sam wrinkled his nose like an unimpressed potential buyer, scraping a finger along the desk and grimacing disgustedly at the grimy coating which gathered there.

Cigarette ends and litter scattered across the floor formed a grim epitaph for the teenagers whose violent deaths had drawn the Winchesters' attention to the place.

Even if I was a _ghost,_ Sam thought petulantly, I wouldn't hang around in a place like this.

- - - - - - - -

Randal Eddison had been a popular writer of sensationalist thriller novels until his premature death. He'd been epileptic, and had apparently passed out and drowned after a seizure caught him in the bath. Apparently he'd rotted into the bathtub for almost a week before anyone found him. For all the unpleasantness of his death, Eddison didn't seem like 'vengeful spirit' material. However, a group of teenagers, taking advantage of his secluded and abandoned writing retreat to smoke and drink without their parents' knowledge, had been found horribly mutilated – they had choked to death on their own severed tongues – despite the fact that the only tracks in the thick, leafy mud surrounding the cabin were their own. The police – weren't they always? – were baffled.

And, although he was loathe to admit it, John Winchester had been similarly baffled. Randal Eddison had been nothing but ashes in his grave within eight hours of the Winchesters' arrival in the nearby town where he was buried. The following day, two police officers, dispatched by their frustrated superior to find any remaining evidence at the remote crime scene, had also died, their throats blocked up with swollen flesh and blood, their lips blue with oxygen deprivation.

Returning to the motel the next morning clutching a newspaper, John had slumped backwards brokenly into a hard chair. 'I don't understand,' he muttered.

Dean glanced up from his careful cleaning of the extensive Winchester shotgun collection, frowned and set down the piece he was holding. Sam flicked his eyes up from his book and rapidly back down again, determined not to take the bait. He was making a point of ignoring his father, having been forbidden to take part in a debating team competition because of the extended weekends' hunting.

Dean wordlessly picked up the newspaper. He only needed to glance at the headline, and the date. 'What the hell? I thought we torched this bastard.'

'I guess we had the wrong guy,' John offered wearily. This hunt was getting to him, the stomach-churning methods of this spirit put him on edge, and the teenage victims were a little too close to Sammy's age.

'But he died there, right?' Dean pressed, leafing through the other research papers on the desk. 'The guy we torched?'

'He did,' John confirmed. 'It wasn't murder, though. Not suicide, either. Doesn't exactly qualify for vengeful spirit status.'

Dean shrugged. 'Maybe he was just a psycho.'

Sam humphed quietly from his corner, and felt his brother's eyes on him.

'Sorry, Sammy,' Dean smirked. 'I mean, maybe he had a _difficult childhood_.'

John glanced between his sons fondly, but Sam pointedly looked away, and John sighed, turning back to the questioning eyes of his eldest. 'Well, apparently not. According to all reports, he was a nice, quiet, normal guy. Nothing weird, not aggressive… it doesn't make any sense.'

'It's the quiet ones you got to watch out for,' Dean put in.

John snorted softly. 'Guy was a writer. Quite famous, so I'm told.'

Dean raised his eyebrows, and rifled through the collection of old newspaper reports again. 'Randal… Eddison. Ring any bells, Sammy?'

Sam shrugged, shook his head and went back to his book, eyebrows drawn together in irritation at the interruption.

'Hang on,' Dean added suddenly. Sam looked up again with an exasperated grunt. 'He used a pen name. How about Robert MacIntyre?'

Sam frowned, sitting up straighter. 'Yeah. He wrote about, like serial killers, or something. I read one where this guy would cut out people's….'

He trailed off, wide-eyed as the realisation set in. 'Oh.'

'_Oh,_' Dean echoed. 'Is that even possible, Dad? Haunting by a fictional character?'

John was silent, frowning flicking the pages of his journal.

'It wouldn't be that the fictional character was haunting it… When you write, you put a part of yourself into each character, right? To make them real…' Sam theorised, too enthused to maintain his tantrum. 'So, it's like an aspect of MacIntyre came back to haunt the house as an angry spirit. Like, he pushed all his anger and frustration into this invented personality…'

Dean grinned. 'Whatever, Mr Empathy. I like my version better. Hey, you think the Empire State Building's haunted by the ghost of King Kong?'

Sam gave him a flat look. 'No. Idiot.'

Dean made an obscene gesture at his brother behind John's back. 'Nice theory, Sammy, but it falls down a bit considering that this writer guy was toast _before_ those two cops died.' He folded the latest news clipping into a rough paper aeroplane and fired it at Sam; it hit him on the nose, he unfolded it scowling and read the headline.

'There must be some part of him that we missed,' John mumbled, still engrossed in the journal.

'Yeah- in thousands of bookstores across the whole country,' Sam replied, his voice dropping in awe as he considered the magnitude of it.

Dean was shaking his head. 'Drama queen. If that were true, the haunting wouldn't be confined to one place. I don't think the copies of the book would have any power… But if your girly Psych 101 theory is true then MacIntyre, or Eddison, or whatever, put in a part of himself when he made up the character. When he _first_ made up the character…'

'The original,' Sam breathed. 'It must be in the house somewhere.'

Dean smiled slyly. 'Yahtzee.'

Both boys looked anxiously at their father for approval. John grinned. 'You know what? You might actually have something here.'

Sam's enthusiasm had depleted dramatically when John made it clear that the search for Eddison's notebooks would have to take place immediately.

'Dad, I've got _homework.'_

'Should've thought of that earlier, Sammy.'

'I'll get detention if I miss another assignment.'

'I'll write you a note.'

'School's _important,_ Dad.'

'This is important, son – people's lives.'

'I'd rather be doing my homework.'

Dean looked up from his final checks on the shotguns. 'I'm _not_ related to you.'

- - - - - - -

_The second part, in a rare stroke of organisation from me, is already completed, so will be up soon. I'd love to hear what you thought of the beginning. :D x_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for your reviews, and to __all those who read Chapter one. I hope you enjoyed it, and here's part two, which is where things start to happen…_

- - - - - - - -

**Becoming by Accident**

**Chapter Two**

The week-old physics assignment was still preying on his mind as Sam entered the half-collapsed house later that evening. His teacher was about as reasonable as a rhino, and as accommodating as steel, and _would _mar Sam's clean disciplinary record with a detention unless a _really_ good excuse could be found.

'Sam? Sam!' John snapped his fingers impatiently in front of his youngest's dazed face, bringing him harshly back to reality by shining a flashlight into his eyes.

'Yes, sir,' Sam grunted sullenly.

'I'm going to head upstairs to look for the notebooks. You boys can take the ground floor and the basement. Toss a coin or something.'

'Be careful, Dad,' Dean said seriously. 'Floorboards look pretty rotten; we don't want you to bypass the stairs on your way back down.'

John nodded impatiently. 'Find them, torch them… and we can all go home and forget about the whole thing.' He disappeared up the stairs, which groaned loudly under his weight.

Dean looked sideways at Sam. 'Home sweet home, huh?' he said, waving an arm vaguely at the rancid interior of Eddison's house.

'Well, it's probably cheap. Our sort of place,' Sam replied, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

'No noisy neighbours, either.'

'Shame about the serial killer ghost, really. Otherwise, perfect.'

Sam wandered idly across the room and skimmed a finger along the top of the mantelpiece. He studied it: it came away completely black. He heard Dean laughing behind him.

'Look at you, Sammy. You just can't wait to put on your frilly apron and give this place a good spring cleaning.'

Sam lurched at his brother, smudging the black dirt from his finger across Dean's cheek. Dean danced aside. 'Could be your dream home, Sammy. Wife, two point five kids, little house in the woods… pet rat like the one behind you right now…'

Sam yelped and spun on his feet.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. 'Made you look.'

Sam growled angrily at his brother, but the attempted dangerous glare looked comical on his open, youthful face.

Dean glanced around the room. 'Right, well, I guess we better find these papers so we can get the hell out of here. You want to take the basement?'

'Are you kidding? Where do you think the rest of the rats are hanging out?'

Dean made a face, and nodded. 'Point taken. We'll toss a coin. Call?'

'Heads.'

'Tails.'

'No way – let me see!'

Dean showed him. Sam scowled, certain that he'd somehow been cheated.

'Enjoy the basement, Sammy.'

Sam sighed, and turned towards the stairs.

'Sam –.'

He looked back. Dean's eyes were suddenly serious. 'Be careful, okay. If there's any weirdness – yell.'

'I will. You, too.'

Dean nodded, and bent to open the drawer of the desk.

- - - - - -

Sam was relieved to find that the stairs down to the basement were solid and concrete. The floor was hard stone too, rendered slippery with a few inches' depth of water, and green algae grew several feet up the walls, suggesting that the basement had been more severely flooded in the past. Sam swore under his breath as the damp seeped into his sneakers. The smell of mould was almost overpowering down here. Sam advanced slowly, holding one hand over his nose and mouth. It seemed fairly unlikely that the original manuscript for Robert MacIntyre's most famous novel would be stored in this basement.

A cupboard by the far wall turned out to contain rotting blankets and towels, and the crate balanced precariously on top of it bore a pair of hiking boots, a broken clock, a few empty wine bottles and a map of the area: limp with moisture and torn down the middle. There was a spade leaning against the wall behind the cupboard. A pile of books turned out to be an OED, a copy of _Alice in Wonderland_, and a reporter's notebook, which was blank except for the words 'becoming' and 'by accident' written in black ink of the first sheet, with a few other phrases which damp had made illegible.

Out of boredom as much as dedication, Sam burned the notebook, soaking it with lighter fuel to make the soggy paper catch, and letting the ashes crumble into the water at his feet.

- - - - - -

Above him, Dean was faring no better. The drawers of the desk were bursting with papers, which he searched laboriously, finding only junk mail, bank statements, letters from publishers, newspapers, catalogues and magazines. Evidently Eddison kept his creative papers somewhere else. As he pushed the last drawer back in to the desk, one of its supports broke, and the desk lurched sideways, clattering down at a wild angle. Dean staggered back quickly to save his feet from being crushed under the broken furniture.

He wandered over to the mantelpiece to look through the heap of papers balanced there.

The spirit's inactivity was making him tense, wondering what, exactly, it was waiting for.

- - - - - - - -

After a cursory search of the little hallway at the top of the staircase, John moved on into the bedroom, directly above the study where Dean was. He paused in the doorway, looking at the dark timbers of the floor. Dean's warning about the floor boards had been well-founded, his every step elicited a loud protesting creak from the old, neglected and rotting wood.

There was a desk in the far corner, stacked with an untidy pile of ring-bound notebooks and loose pages coated in dense, slanted handwriting. The desk was nestled in the alcove between the bulge of the chimney and the eastern corner of the house.

John stepped out gingerly into the room, taking care to put down his foot flat, minimising the pressure exerted on the boards. The creak was fairly quiet. John was encouraged – perhaps the rot hadn't set in so deeply in this room as it had nearer the front door. He took a few quicker steps. He was in front of the chimney. Something gave beneath him, and he was falling.

- - - - - - -

Sam stood for a long moment watching the ashes swirl and separate in the water, alone with his thoughts. He thought about the teenagers who'd died a gut-wrenchingly horrible death here: they'd been thirteen like him, or a little older. He thought about how immune to death he felt, at thirteen, and how they must have felt, unaware of all the dangers and fears which filled Sam's life. He thought, even if the spirit's threat were eliminated tonight, they'd still be cold and dead. He reflected that nearly every hunt they came to began with an obituary. _We're always trying to save somebody. But we can never save them all._

He heard a muffled crash, above him, which invaded the silence of his meditations. He sighed, wondering if Dean had lashed out against the furniture in frustration. Sam felt about the same. Evidently there was nothing useful down here.

Before he could decide to give up, a second crash echoed through the basement, bouncing off the hard bare walls and the wet floor. Above, Dean's voice yelped 'Shit!' and something else that he couldn't make out, drowned out by the clattering and thuds of things hitting the floor, and a heavier sound – _thud_ – and a softer impact, too, all swallowed up in several seconds of cacophony, assaulting his ears.

Sam stood petrified to the spot, shell-shocked, for the few seconds' hollow silence which followed. Then, a gasp, a groan and a small, strangled cry. Then, 'Sammy! _Sammy!'_

- - - - - - - -

Galvanised into action, Sam sprinted for the stairs, slipped and skidded on his knees across the floor, soaking his jeans in frigid water and grazing the palms of his hands on the uneven surface.

He scrambled to his feet and took the stairs two at a time, exploding out of the door at the top like a greyhound off starting blocks. Then stopped abruptly.

He took in the sight in horror, backing up against the wall in denial. John was sprawled unconscious in front of the cold fireplace, bleeding from his head, right arm at an awkward angle.

Dean was lying on his stomach on the floor, pinned down by a massive wooden beam across his back, his legs obscured by lumps of plaster. He was trying to get up; trembling hands clutched at the wooden boards in front of him, spasming with pain. He could barely lift his chin an inch off the ground. Blocks of ice seemed to freeze in Sam's stomach when he noticed the rusty five-inch nails protruding from the heavy beam, and that one of the had gouged a bloody hole in his brother's back.

Both palms flat on the floor, Dean pushed his shoulders up enough to crane his neck and meet Sam's eyes. There was a look of raw desperation on his face which frightened Sam; he'd never seen Dean look like that before.

'Sammy?'

Sam gaped, flailing in confusion for the right words. 'Oh- oh, my God. My God, Dean. What- ? I – Oh, ohmyGod. Shit. Help…'

Sam's back was pressed hard against the wall, and he was staring horrified at his brother as though Dean were some hideous mirage which Sam refused to believe.

'Sam…' Dean tried again, grunting with effort and pain as he tried to push himself up. 'Don't zone out on me, man. You can deal with this.'

'I – can't – nonono….Dean-.'

'Calm down – Look at me, Sammy. We're going to be fine. Right now, I need you to take a deep breath – go on. Good. Okay, now check on Dad for me.'

Sam shuffled away from the wall and took miniscule steps towards the pool of carnage on the floor, keeping eye contact with Dean until his brother couldn't hold his head up far enough any more.

Sam Winchester had seen and done a lot in his short life – monsters, injuries, and dangerous situations – but always with an indestructible and fearless father or brother to lean on and follow when disaster struck. But this, now - this was different. This was new. Sam wasn't sure if he could do _this._

He pressed two fingers against the side of his father's neck.

'Pulse?' Dean prompted.

'Yes…'

'Breathing?'

'Yes. He's bleeding from his head, though…'

'Scalp wounds bleed a lot, Sammy. Does it look deep?'

'Not really… Hell, Dean, I don't _know!_'

Sam threw his arms up in desperation.

'It's okay. Deep breath – focus. Anything else?'

'I don't – I think maybe his arm's broken. Shit, Dean, I – you -.'

'Is that all?'

'I – yeah. I guess he's just knocked out.' Sam pressed his palms over his eyes, hoping everything would just slow down.

'Any chance you can lift this, Sammy?' Dean asked quietly, sounding doubtful.

Sam emerged from behind his hands and looked at the beam. His instinct was _no, no chance at all,_ but he had to try. However –

'Dean, there's a nail…'

'Yeah, Sammy, I… I'd noticed,' Dean conceded weakly.

Sam seized the beam and heaved with all his strength. He felt like the muscles of his arms and back were stretched and snapping – he lifted it maybe two inches and it slipped from his grasp.

Dean cried out, screwing up his eyes, as the beam slammed down on him and the nail dug a deeper furrow into his back. It took him a full minute to get his breathing under control, and Sam watched him, horrified.

'Try again,' Dean gasped, finally.

'Dean, no way, I'll break your spine or something…'

'Sammy, I-.'

'We got to wait for Dad to come round. I _can't…'_

'_Sam -.'_

Dean was white, staring past Sam at some new threat. Sam spun, and fell backwards in recoil at the sight of the pale, bearded man, grinning at him and wielding a vicious set of shears. Sam rolled over and slapped frantically at John's impassive face.

'Daddaddaddadcomeoncomeonpleasepleasewakeup.'

Dean's gaze locked on the salt-loaded shotgun which he had left leaning against the desk. It was out of reach, but only just. He stretched his shoulders and back, reaching desperately across the floor, straining against the beam pinning him for a few essential inches' freedom.

Eddison leered down at the three Winchesters, each helpless for their own reasons. 'Scream for me…' he hissed, raising his weapon.

'_Sam!'_ Dean screamed, the tip of one finger brushing the shotgun handle.

Sam looked up, startled out of his blind panic, and finally saw the gun. He threw himself sideways towards it, landing on Dean's outstretched arm and snatching the weapon, then rolling. He fired up into Eddison's face, and the spirit shattered.

The brothers relaxed; Sam let his head fall back onto the wooden floor with a loud sigh.

'Sam… you got to get those books…' Dean whispered.

'There wasn't anything in the cellar.'

Dean shook his head. 'Not here either.'

'Upstairs? But, the floor…'

'Keep as close to the walls as you can. Floor should be better reinforced there.'

'But, Dean, if he comes back…'

'Give me the shotgun.'

'You can't – Dean, you can't really aim it...'

Dean met his eyes, and Sam saw something like fear or even resignation in his brother's green gaze. Wordlessly, he reloaded the gun and handed it to Dean.

'So hurry.'

- - - - - - -

_Thanks for reading! What did you think? x_


	3. Chapter 3

_And, finally: part three!_

- - - - - - - -

**Becoming by Accident**

**Chapter Three**

_Hurry_ was easier said than done, Sam thought, standing in the bedroom doorway looking at the pile of notebooks across the gaping hole in the floor. He'd followed Dean's advice and clung to the walls all the way up the stairs and around the hallway, but here the hole stretched all the way to the wall, and the other side of the room was an obstacle course of furniture and boxes. He would have to cross the middle of the room, passing within a foot of the edge of the hole.

Not having had time to do his assignment, the details of his last physics lesson were a little hazy in Sam's mind. It had had to do with pressure, and how it was affected by the surface area in contact. He worked out that he should either cross the room on tip-toe, for the minimum surface area, or he should spread himself out and crawl on his belly. He couldn't remember which it was.

What had Dean done, that time when he had to go out on the ice to pull Sam out of the hole he'd fallen into? The memory was patchy, mostly just sensations like cold and pain, and a few images. Black branches against a white sky, blurred by the water between them and Sam. Dean's white fingers fisting in the front of Sam's jacket. Dean, sprawled out beside him on the ice, dragging him, inch by inch, towards safety. Crawling on his belly.

Sam knelt and walked his hands forward until he was stretched full length on the floor. He advanced by a sort of clumsy wriggling, skirting carefully around the splintered, uneven edge of the hole. Halfway across the floor, he was halted abruptly by a distant exclamation from Dean, and then a shot. Sam was seized with hot, bitter-tasting panic. His too-vivid imagination conjured images of Dean, pinned and helpless on the floor, falling prey to the sick exploits of the dead writer. _Scream for me…_

Some buried part of Sam rose up and beat down his panic. He was no use to Dean like this – if _he_ were in danger, his brother wouldn't lie paralysed with fear and inactive. For all those times he'd been saved by the timely actions of his brother or father – well, it was time to start paying them back. And the best he could do for them right now was to burn away the spirit's last link to this world…

He resumed his wriggling, and rose gingerly to his knees once he reached the wall beside the desk. With great concentration, he scattered salt and lighter fuel over the papers and notebooks. The page on top was one Sam recognised from the climax of the novel – evidently MacIntyre hadn't kept them in order. Sam remembered reading the phrases on the page: "Benjamin curled into the cold embrace of the shadow-clothed figure behind him, lost in grief… a voice in his ear cut through his concentration like a scythe...'

'_Scream for me, Sammy.'_

- - - - - - -

Dean twisted his neck awkwardly to watch Sam disappear up the stairs. The cool weight of the shotgun between his hands was inexplicably reassuring, though Sam had been right: he'd only be able to aim it at a 60۫ arc directly in front of him.

The weight on his back was agonizing, crushing his ribcage against the floor and making every breath slow and laborious. The nail, ironically, he couldn't really feel as long as he didn't move, but the slightest twitch would bring him up short, paralysing him so completely that he couldn't see, breathe or think.

He could hear Sam moving around somewhere above him, and his father breathing nearby, but out of his line of sight. If the ghost appeared behind him, he wouldn't be able to see it. He concentrated, listening and breathing in the feel of the air, searching for the subtle change which would indicate the presence of the supernatural.

After a few seconds, he felt it, a change in the flavour of the air. He craned his neck wildly, but could only glimpse flickers of a figure, somewhere behind him, stooping over-

_Dad._

'I'll scream for you,' he muttered, following it with a wordless yell which was hardly a scream, but got Eddison's attention.

Next thing, the ghost was directly in front of him – to close to get a decent shot. Dean threw caution to the wind, and arched his back as violently as he could, letting off a shot upwards into Eddison's insubstantial body. His movement jarred the beam, and the nail tore a deep, jagged trench along his rib.

Eddison was apparently gone, but the feeling of wrongness remained in the air.

Sam… _Sam,_ thought Dean, and he passed out.

- - - - - - -

Sam froze, his fingers suddenly too stiff to work the lighter. Somebody – something – was holding him from behind, a cold, still, immovable arm around his waist. He could see the shears gleaming in his peripheral vision.

_No no no…I have to keep my mouth closed._

But he couldn't breathe, suddenly, and all he wanted to do was gasp massively like a diver surfacing… he pressed his lips together so hard it hurt, and spots danced in front of his eyes, and then he couldn't see at all, and suddenly he thought _Dean_ – Dean, laughing at him for wanting to do his homework, Dean, firing a paper aeroplane at him across a motel room, Dean, pinned to the floor and impaled by a rusty nail…

'_No!'_

In one movement, he flicked the lighter on and dropped it onto the heap of paper. Well-soaked in fuel, they went up immediately with a soft _whump._ Sam heard the shriek of the spirit being torn from this world, deafening in his ear. He watched the words 'Scream for me' twist and blacken and crumble, and let out a long breath. It was gone.

- - - - - - -

John scowled as awareness returned to his body. He had a bitch of a headache, and he felt battered and bruised from head to toe. He picked his head up off the damp wooden floor in time to see his youngest son stumble down the last few stairs, pale but triumphant.

'Sammy?' he managed shakily. His own voice sounded too loud in his ears.

'Dad! You ok? – Look out, I think your arm may be broken,' he added, when John began to pick himself up.

'I burned the notebooks, Dad,' Sam told him proudly. 'But I need you to help me free Dean.' John followed Sam's glance and choked involuntarily at the sight of his eldest sprawled unconscious on his stomach, pinned to the floor by a massive beam.

Sam pressed shaky fingers to his brother's weak but steady pulse, and set to clearing away the lumps of plaster and other debris until only the heavy beam remained near Dean.

John watched him, impressed. This was Sammy, but subtly different from the Sammy who'd obeyed his orders (however unwillingly), and Dean's suggestions, on any number of previous hunts. This was Sammy on his own terms, taking his own orders. John wondered what had changed while he'd been unconscious.

'Dad?' Sam's urgent voice broke into his meditations.

'Sammy, with one arm…'

'We can move it, together, Dad. I'm sure,' Sam cut in. He sounded sure, too.

John stared helplessly at his two sons: one limp and pale with his eyes closed, the other looking at him with a humbling expression of hope and faith and certainty. It had been a long time since Sammy had looked at him like that.

'Okay?'

'Okay, well, we got to try,' John replied, sucking in air through his teeth. In the absence of a sling, he tucked his right arm securely inside his jacket.

Sam bent down next to his brother and wrapped his arms round the wooden beam. 'Ready?'

'Hold up, Sammy. We got to push from the end.' John pointed at the far end of the beam, which hovered a foot or more off the ground, propped by the debris it rested on, and by Dean's body. Sam looked blankly at his father.

'You need less force if you push further away from the pivot…moment equals force times distance,' John elaborated. Sam was stunned, but then he thought, after all, John _had_ been a mechanic in a previous life. 'Don't they teach you anything at that school?'

'Well, Dad, I didn't have time to do my homework, so…'

John grinned. 'Alright. Point taken.'

Sam joined him at the far end of the beam and gripped it with both hands, while John positioned his left hand beside them.

'Ready?'

Sam smirked. 'I was born ready.'

John regarded his younger son sideways. 'You're either spending too much time with Dean, or watching too much TV.'

'Both.'

'Okay-.'

Together, they struggled against the weight of the beam. Sam gritted his teeth, tired muscles aching and trembling in his skinny arms. Beside him, John released a loud groan of effort. Slowly, slowly, the wood moved. When it was two or three inches clear of Dean's back, John grated out 'okay, now to the left,' and they staggered crabwise like clumsy Siamese twins, heaving their burden.

They were almost clear when John's awkward, one-handed grip failed. Sam gasped in shock as he took the full weight of the beam. He threw his entire body at it, pushing it clear and letting it fall with a loud _boom_ a fraction after it would have fallen and shattered Dean's ankles.

Sam stumbled and fell hard on his ass on the cold, dirty floor, intoxicated with relief.

'Nice one, Sammy,' John managed shakily.

Sam nodded his thanks, and crawled forward.

When his shirt was pulled up, Dean's back was a mass of bruising, and the dark tear where the nail had broken his skin was seeping blood slowly.

'He needs a hospital…' Sam said decisively, meeting John's eyes and daring him to disagree. 'That nail was rusty, he might have an infection.'

John nodded. 'Risk of broken ribs, too,' he conceded.

'Can you drive one-handed?' Sam asked hopefully, 'because I could…'

John held up his good arm as a shield against his younger son's enthusiasm.

'No way, Sammy. I'm not explaining to Dean how a hole got in the Impala's hood. I'm driving.'

- - - - - - -

Hours later, Sam sat in a waiting room with his bandaged and encasted father, twiddling his thumbs nervously. Dean had looked pretty bad by the time they arrived here. He hadn't woken up in the car, but his breathing had sounded more and more laboured, and the doctor's face upon seeing his battered back had been a mask of horror: he'd turned to Sam and demanded, 'what the hell _happened?'_

Sam had satisfied the nurses with a garbled story about an unstable beam in an old barn loft belonging to a family friend. He couldn't, of course, admit to having been snooping around a closed crime scene.

His father and brother had both been whisked away from him on arrival, but John had returned after less than an hour with his arm in a sling and a dressing on his head, as well as a card listing the symptoms of concussion, and telling him to seek further medical attention if he suffered from severe nausea.

When they were, finally, allowed to see Dean, Sam pushed past his father and the perplexed, pony-tailed doctor and hurried to his brother's bedside. Dean's midsection was swathed in bandages, and his eyes were closed and shadowed. Behind him, Sam could hear the doctor telling John about 'blood loss', 'pneumothorax,' 'stable' and 'no physical exertion.' He relaxed when he heard her weary voice say, 'he should be fine.' The rest of the spiel faded into the background, though, because Dean's face contracted into a frown, and then he doubtfully opened one eye.

'Sammy?' His voice was raspy, and he winced as he spoke, but Sam was insanely happy to hear Dean talking. 'How'd it go?'

'Got him,' Sam told him proudly.

'That's my boy.' Dean smiled. He'd never doubted it.

'How you feeling?'

'Like I've been sat on by an elephant.'

Sam winced in sympathy.

'How'd you persuade the elephant to get off me? Use your feminine wiles?'

'No, Dad used his.'

Dean grinned, and Sam laughed. He settled on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, and filled Dean in on what he'd missed.

- - - - - - -

When John finally put the case that Dean needed to sleep, and Sam needed to put in an appearance at school, Sam argued, but was eventually beaten down.

Dean looked up sharply. 'I just remembered – you never did get to do that Physics homework. And Dad can't really write you an excuse note with his arm in a cast.'

Sam nodded resignedly. 'Ah well. There are fates worse than detention.'

Dean smiled evilly. 'Really?' he asked, mockingly incredulous. 'Worse than detention?'

- - - - - - -

The teacher glared around the room, and twenty-five students held their breath, crossing their fingers under the desks in the hope that his gaze would fall on someone else.

'Mr Winchester?'

Sam jumped, startled out of a doze, and looked up at the teacher with a sleepy, politely questioning expression.

'Yes, sir?'

'What do you remember from last week's assignment?'

Sam bit his lip, wondering, 'do I dare?', and, in a rare moment of Dean-like audacity, decided 'what the hell?'

'I remember moment equals force times distance, sir. And pressure equals force over surface area in contact.'

For a long moment, the teacher watched him suspiciously, convinced that he must somehow have cheated. Sam stared him down.

Finally, the teacher nodded. 'Good. Glad to know someone does their homework around here,' he said, turning away.

Behind his teacher's back, Sam punched the air in elation. _Oh, yes, Dean,_ he thought,_ I _am_ related to you._

- - - -- - - - -

_Thanks for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it. x_


End file.
